Revival
by skrewtkeeper
Summary: Sequel to :Finality:. The effect of one's departure. An analysis. MMAD.
1. Obstinate Obsession

**A/N:**_ This is the sequel, as it were, to Finality, though it can stand on its own, I think. I feel it entirely unfair of me to simply leave you hanging as I have here, so I promise an update later on today... (Yes, it's so late, it's tomorrow here. xD). You know, I only split it like this because I have several versions of what could possibly follow and I'm still stricken with indecision. At least I have the essential parts written... I shan't say anymore lest I reveal everything right here, right now. :D Enjoy what follows!  
_

=~*~=

"Professor McGonagall?"

The woman turned in her seat, her name somehow retaining that sense of importance in her mind and soul; it seemed entirely mad that there could still be importance tying things together anymore.

"Thank you," she replied distantly to the faceless messenger. She knew what the parcel contained, and dared not open it. She would only see his writing, the words he penned, and would be lost forever. To think that he had written the words of his will one evening unbeknownst to her, struck a deep chord within her. Surely, a man sensed when his time was to come, but how could he have known? And dying by what she presumed to be a friend! Her entire soul ached. . . .

The beautiful summer day taunted her, ridiculed her, _laughed_ at her. What was beautiful when the very reason for life was dead? Minerva turned her eyes towards that marble sepulcher, that beautifully smooth ivory resting place for her beloved. . . . He would never again say the three words she had taken so marginally, so lightly…the three declarative words she had taken for granted.

Tears came, but none fell. People remained among the congregation, and Professor McGonagall still found the weakness to weep in front of a crowd grievous to be borne. The weeping would come when she returned to bed herself that night…alone.

She cringed inwardly; the emotion this thought evoked pressed upon her, yet she failed to yield unto it. She was stronger than this. Her sheer will to hold tears back would suffice. Effortlessly, she mantled that stern, schoolmistress façade, displeased at how softer it felt upon her face. . . . The usual corners were not so sharp. It was as though someone had filed them away. . . .

She cast a single glare to the grave, that shining silver emblem of the last indication she had loved another before turning away for what she determined as forever. As the throng conversed amongst themselves, Minerva slipped away while everyone was occupied. . . .The only flaw in her plan was the fact that her escape had not been as discreet as intended. A silent boy of sixteen watched her with sadness in his emerald eyes before he turned to the three people surrounding either side of him.

Hermione noticed the glazed look in his eyes and knew at once that something was wrong. She let go of Ron and edged closer to Harry before whispering, "Harry, what is it?"

Beyond all power of spoken words, he pointed to the single witch painfully making her way back to the castle. . . . Hermione issued a soft cry of surprise before burying her face into Ron's neck again for solace while Ginny simply looked on in reverent silence. Harry noticed none of this. Why would McGonagall leave a meeting so important as this early? Surely, she had duties to attend to, but Harry felt quite strongly that the death of a colleague so close to her as Dumbledore would certainly be observed with more grace than formality. . . . It wracked him to the core. What could be possibly wrong?

=~*~=

Harry observed without confiding to his friends further; surely, they noticed that not all was well with him, with their acting Headmistress, with them all in a way, but this obstruction would be best dealt with alone; he acknowledged that and accepted it. The only potential problem was slipping from beneath the arms of his companions to pursue that which had never been pursued before. . . . He never thought twice of his professors' feelings on anything at all, except this matter pertaining to this single professor. . . . What he feared more than anything was that he was stepping into the bowels of the storm that were forbidden to him, to them all. Yet, some unexplainable force nudged him on. In order to leave that great castle of a school, this problem needed resolution. It was required of him; he owed it to the last professor that still cared for him.

Harry spoke little to his friends and Ginny about his convictions on the matter. They apparently had decided, as a whole, to avoid bothering him with offhand conversation to make him feel better. Even Ron was contributing to the silence. It was a most noticeable change. Harry was happy with his friends' concern for him…their concern would gradually lessen after his quest had been completed, yet he was glad for the excuse to observe even further. Had anyone known about this sudden obsession for his Transfiguration professor, they would have thought him insane. Harry couldn't even explain it to himself--he breathed again when she, in all normality, sliced the air with a submissive wave of her hand to produce the food they ate at every meal -regardless of the fact that she did so in her normal seat, leaving that great throne-like chair empty and creating a dark chasm at the staff table-. It was evident that she was coping, but coping was a word used when one could not function normally. She was the same in all outward appearance. Coping was a word used for those ready to shatter into a million pieces. Harry could not quite picture such a strong influence shattering. Professors such as that did not shatter- it was not in their nature. They held fast, regardless of the circumstances. Yet, he could not help but wonder that the very matriarch of the school hid that pain from the eyes of the world. Women were rather strange creatures; they bottled up those emotions that could produce hurricanes in the very sky…

He made his decision one evening as she pulled supper from the very air yet again. It was four days after the great Headmaster's death, and she never had looked more exhausted. His gaze turned towards the rest of the staff; he was pleased to observe with a swift glance to the school matron, sitting on the other side of the great empty seat, that he was not alone in his worry. He was saddened to note that his professor barely touched her food before leaving early, as she always appeared to do these days.

Harry excused himself from the table, murmuring, "See you later." Both Hermione and Ginny nodded in understanding. Ron, however, had lost whatever he had gained in tactfulness. "War arr yew goin?" he questioned, his mouth full of food. Harry did not miss the disgusted glare Hermione shot at the side of Ron's face as he continued to chew, completely unaware of the growing danger beside him.

Harry almost grinned, and it felt wonderful…cleansing, even. "I have…things to do," he replied offhandedly, not bothering to feign the awkwardness he felt at such a preordained task such as this; it was beyond anything he had ever done.

"Wat kye of tings?"

Hermione's anger escalated at the remark, and she hissed dangerously in Ron's ear, "You warthog. Harry has some _things _he needs to do. Is that all right?!"

Realization glowed in Ron's eyes- a dim light of recognition before they shone with understanding. "'Kay Huree."

Hermione rolled her eyes, aghast at his insensitivity before shooting an apologetic glance to Harry. Harry nodded in understanding before turning away and making his silent journey to the quarters of which he avoided at all costs.


	2. Measures of Revivalism

=~*~=

The essence of what once was faded into bleak nothingness as she opened her eyes; almost afraid to face the present, the newest unturned corner of her life. The memory of him that once gave her life had donned a fluid-like substance. Just as she ran her fingers across his face, the image became distorted, wavy, as if she was not allowed to see him at all. . . .

And so she was not. That was as it should be. How she learned to live with loss was sheer will mixed with a burning fury; she should not weep- weeping was for those spineless, old spinsters who loved more than they could control. She could control herself; she did not love Albus as much as she once believed. She strove to pierce his memory in every way in order to avoid facing the consequences of remembering altogether. If she forgot him, she would no longer be in any pain. However, how was this living if all she did was channel her thoughts to a different dimension? How could she live knowing that she doused the shining light that brought her more joy in his time on earth than anyone else she had ever known? What was _worth_ that?

Control. . . .She reigned in her emotions with great ease, repulsed by them and invigorated by them. If she continued to mantle this burning fury, she would never have to worry about cracking in front of her students, her dear children. The ice she wore was impenetrable and the contours of her façade were back again. This was her glory, her victory above all things. She could conform to life as it once was _without _a man beside her. It was simple; it was easy.

She sensed a ripple, a disturbance in the wards as she sat behind the desk she could never claim as her own. (But hell yes, she would, one day soon. She would overcome.) She looked up from the same desk she had dappled in dreams only five minutes previously before barking in her ordinary, brisk manner, "Come in!"

Her visitor was completely unexpected, noticeable on her face by a slight twitch in her nostrils, as though this was the greatest indication of surprise she would allow herself. Her visitor did not look much better; he looked as surprised to be there as she was to see him.

"Mr. Potter," she addressed curtly, gesturing to the seat in front of the desk as he looked up at her. He shook his head, but her insistence won out. Harry wandered over to the chair flanking his- _her_ desk before flopping upon it. His eyes fell to the floor, as if they carried great weights. Minerva glanced at him curiously; what probed his visit?

After several moments of utter silence, she began impatiently, "Normally when a student comes to see me the student has something to say--"

"I'm sorry, Professor." That was better, but the scratch in his voice cut through her. "I've just been…thinking of how to say this. . . ."

"Perhaps it would be best if you came back later?" she inquired charitably, almost out of pure concern, but not quite. . . . She had things to do. Students were leaving the following morning and procrastinating was out of the question. Already she had to allow sixteen students to go home before the end of the term because of the funeral alone. . . .

Harry shook his head roughly, still pointedly avoiding eye contact. "This can't wait. I…won't have another chance to speak with you."

"I was merely suggesting that you come back when you are _ready_ to speak with me," Professor McGonagall explained gently. "I do not doubt that I will still be in this very chair when you return."

Harry looked up at her then, and she saw a shadow of something she could not identify. It almost looked…reproachful…or hostile. What was wrong?

Harry ran his fingers through his hair. "How do you know if you'll still be there?"

Their eyes met for a split second before a great wall rose within Harry's gaze and the hardness of the boy's gaze caused her to break the line of connection between their souls to glance at the clock situated above his head. "I have many things to do and I am detained for the rest of the evening," she replied evenly, knowing that he was not looking for this answer.

"That's not what I meant."

"Harry," she sighed, glancing at the unclean paraphernalia littering her desk; remnants of him that she refused to part with, even if they _did_ cause an unquenchable fury to blaze within her, "what makes you believe that I will die too?"

"Because I never tell you anything you need to know."

His response was eloquent for a sixteen-year-old. Not in the choice of vernacular, precisely, but in what he was saying…it took a great deal of observance to discover that one never had an adequate time to tell another _everything_.

"And what is it I need to know?" she asked slowly.

Harry inhaled deeply before beginning, "You wear too much green; you're the strictest person I know; you're not emotionless; your nostrils flare when you're angry; you scare the first years; you care about your students; you have a life; you are important to me; you leave the chair empty even though everyone knows it's yours; you are not always this…distant."

Professor McGonagall frowned deeply. "Is that all?"

Harry shook his head.

"Potter, if you say any more I will personally fetch Peeves to stick firecrackers in your ears."

Harry looked up at her in shock before he saw the small, almost imperceptible smile on her face. "Yes, Professor."

"Now, what was your real intention of telling me this?"

"I--" Harry faltered. "Why did you leave the funeral so early?"

The frown returned. "Potter, I do not believe that entitles any of your concern--"

"Why _do_ you leave the chair empty?"

"Again, Potter, I need not explain every action of mine--"

"Why aren't you _here_? I'm not the only one that's noticed. Why are you so…distant?"

"Potter--" she held up a hand to silence him, "--I left early to attend to important ministry matters; I leave the chair empty, not only in memory of our late headmaster, but in the regard that the school governors have yet to decide whether I shall become Headmistress; I _am_ here, Potter. If I were not, I highly doubt we would be having this conversation, if one may even call it such."

Harry smiled slightly. "Why don't you refer to him by name?"

"That also is none of your concern and if you only came here to pry into my private life, I suggest you take your leave now."

"You loved him, didn't you?"

Professor McGonagall glared at him; Harry held out his hands in surrender. "Hermione's idea."

"You tell Ms. Granger that if she desires placement as an Unspeakable, she will never succeed."

Harry gawked at her. "So, it's true?"

"I have met few people who have not taken an immediate liking to Dumbledore, Potter. It should not come as a surprise that more people than you loved him. You should be shocked least of all. I recall that less than five minutes ago you said so yourself in that _flattering_ list of yours, 'you are not emotionless'."

Harry grinned sheepishly. "How else would you know these things if I did not tell them to you first?"

"I already knew them, Potter."

He shook his head. "No, you didn't. People don't always tell others that they are important to them until it is too late. Should you die tomorrow for some inexplicable reason, my work here is done."

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes. "Does this confirm that I am on Filch's list of people he cannot stand?"

Harry laughed. "No, but in the case of your death I no longer care. You see, I told you. . . ."

"You didn't tell _him_, did you?" she asked, gesturing to the sleeping portrait behind her with a jerk of her head.

Harry looked away at once, and though she relished in the silent victory, her concern returned full-force, slicing that infernal mask she had been wearing for the past four days. She had shut off her emotions to the world, and in doing so, had worried her students. Nothing on this earth was worth worrying those children unnecessarily. She wished she could kick herself. "Harry, you do realize that Albus loved you, don't you?"

Harry looked up for a split-second and she saw a glint of joy before it too turned to fluid and became distorted before she could examine its origin. "He didn't love me."

"Harry, you of immeasurable _arrogance_ should surely realize the reason he protected you all these years," she said, pointing out his 'arrogance' in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"No," Harry countered, shaking his head sadly. "I know things you don't, remember? This is one of them."

"Harry, there is no other person in this world that Albus spoke of more. . . . He worried as he put you on the doorstep of your aunt, knowing full well that you would be mistreated. He knew that _something_ would happen at the school if he left it for an instant, and when he sensed something happen, he knew _you_ were in trouble. He knew that you would go after the opener of the Chamber of Secrets. He knew that you would free a man and then later blame yourself upon learning of the same man's death. He knew you would blame yourself for a great many things and knew that you would never believe in his love, even if he proved it to you again and again. If that is not love, then tell me what is."

Harry looked at the floor, and as Minerva gazed at him again, she did not miss the silent tears falling from his eyes.

"Yet," he began softly, his voice steady in spite of the falling tears, "you believe that pretending that he never existed is going to help you deal with your pain. Facing it _is_ hell, Professor, I promise you that, but if you face the world, bravery will follow. You're a Gryffindor. You know this." He smiled and Minerva could almost glimpse a ghost of Albus lingering on his face. "You must fight, but you must not forget. It is stupid to think that pain is preventable, but the pain lessens if you just allow your heart the room to heal. You can cry. It's okay. No one will care. We, your students, respect you more than you realize. . . . Remember that. Remember that you are not the only one who is suffering because of his death."

Before Minerva could do anything, Harry rose and crossed the threshold before exiting, never to enter her realm again. As the door shut behind him, Minerva allowed the silence to engulf her before she heard a small voice speak behind her.

"You've done well, my dear."

"Albus," Minerva whispered in reverence, turning now to that portrait that had remained silent since its inhabitant's death. "You're awake."

"So it would seem," he said with a smile, glancing around the room before settling back into his chair in great contentment.

Minerva turned away, a glare slowly forming on her face.

"Minerva, if I had the means to explain--"

"--you wouldn't do it anyway," Minerva finished acidly. She looked up and saw his entire face droop in anguish. A tendril of pity reached out to her, stroking her heart with remembrance, but before she could speak to apologize flatly for the severity of her reaction to him, he spoke.

"Indeed, I cannot by simply telling you, which is why I left something for you." Minerva glanced at him at the revelation, and he whispered, "Look in the drawing room. I left it for you there."

His soft snore filled the air before she spitefully obeyed the prompting. She touched the cold handle of the door and relished in the familiarity of it, the cool, well-known touch it always brought to her. She gently seized it and turned, taking care to shield her eyes from the glare of the departing sun flooding the room with celestial warmth and luminescence.

As the door shut softly behind her, she realized that she had avoided the room entirely for those past four days. Perhaps it was because she feared that if she allowed this room to retain that sense of routine, the final memory of he that loved her more than anything would blur as well and she would forget his sweet, final declaration. He was flooding her all around and she could not help but feel overwhelmed by his lingering presence; she nearly had to question if he had died at all. . . .

She suddenly felt the pull to sit in that chair, so she complied, one among many chairs she had reverently left empty. If Albus left something for her here, he would have surely sat in that chair before doing so. He would think about where to leave it, how to leave it, when to leave it. When did he leave it? Surely that final night. . . . It should not be far from her shaking fingertips, but why was she shaking? Why was she so anxious to see his final gift to her?

And then she saw it. It was a parchment-bound envelope, her name written cleanly but clearly at the front, the writer entirely forgetting her surname. To this, she smiled. Albus knew her better than she realized. To avoid acknowledging that she was still Professor McGonagall of the world and unmarried, he brought her joy by this act alone. Her fingers trembled further as she split the neat charm upon the sealed marker before she extracted the letter.

_My sweet love,_

_Time has never mattered so much, and as I lovingly gazed at you upon our final evening, our final adventure, I am overwhelmed by what you have given me these last fifty years. You were there when no one else believed. You were there when the whole world fell apart. You were there when no one understood. I cannot even begin to convey to you how much my adoration for you has grown into a full-fledged, beautiful love, complete with what you reciprocate. I feel as though I have loved you since the beginning of time, and I would travel the ends of the earth, braving the extent of anything and everything, (including the loss of the taste of every candy imaginable), to see you happy. Now, as I count down my final hours, I write this to you, hoping that you will take my words to heart, and live as you have never lived before._

_Firstly, my dear Minerva, recognize your worth. It is boundless, endless, but only to those who truly know you as I do. You are so beautiful, in appearance and in spirit and I have been the most blessed of men to have you on my arm for so very long as I have. I am honored to call you my wife, as I am honored to tell those that know, that our marriage stands thus. The world will yet see you as a single woman when I leave, and if perchance a man does come, seeking your hand, do not feel hindered. Give yourself to him if he truly makes you happy, and do not be troubled. Now, my dear, I know you are glaring as you are reading this-- I have not died to send another for your hand, I promise you that. If I still live when he does come around, however, he will receive a notice that he shan't forget! You are far too precious to me to give away so easily, but if it is truly in your heart, I give you the permission to do so. . . ._

_Secondly, when you are weary, rest. It does me wonders and I cannot judge how well it does for you, but stop wedging yourself into the span of a day. Stop... look around you. Realize what you never realize. See what you never observe. This is how I remain so calm, even when people are bellowing for my compliance. Pause for a moment and wonder if that man from the ministry ever brushes his teeth, and speculate how he does so. . . . Would he do so briskly or leisurely? I am only teasing, my darling. Simply relish in the beauty that surrounds you on a daily basis, and in it, you shall find a peace you have never before known. Embrace it and silence the guilt that rises with such an act; as incredible as it may sound, essays and duties never know if you complete them later than you meant to. _

_Thirdly, remember. When you are cold, remember warmth. When you are frightened, remember comfort and guidance. When you are engulfed on either side, overwhelmed by what life throws you, remember love. Remember me. Wherever you are, I shan't be far away. I am nearer than you believe. Be still. Listen to the rain falling from the heavens. Focus on the comfort the sound gives you. . . . Remember that I love you. Remember that I will _always_ love you. Remember that you secretly love lemon drops and have simply neglected to tell me. Remember, my dear, remember, and I will remember you._

_I could tell you so many more things, but the sun has nearly risen and I yearn to hold you again. Forgive me, Minerva, for my selfishness but I must hold you again. Thank you for the days when I thought the world was over until I came to bed and you tended to me so willingly, so selflessly. Thank you for every single thing you have ever said to me; I did not realize consuming hot chocolate and an ample supply of lemon drops would be overly high in sugar, thereby making me happy the rest of the day. Thank you for the silent moments where you have turned to me for comfort when I could prove to you my devotion again and again. Thank you for loving me when I never before believed that I was worth loving. Thank you for being you. _

_I love you._

_Your husband,_

_A._

As Minerva finally allowed herself the liberty to weep, she let go of the mask, burying it in the nethermost regions of her mind, knowing full well that she would never wear it to staunch his memory again. She looked up to the sunset, the image blurred by her tears and just as the sun disappeared completely from her view, she could have sworn she heard the whisper of the man she owed her life to in her ear... _I am nearer than you believe._

As she quickly looked beside her, he was not there, but the meaning was not lost to her as she embraced herself, and taking Albus's advice to heart, she proved what the revival intended. Because she loved him, he would never leave her, neither would she leave him.

* * *

_A/N: I hate this. No, really, I do. I see so many things wrong with this that I nearly published my Insane!Minerva version of this chapter to compensate because I _love_ that one. Just kidding. :D I do really dislike this though. Prove me wrong; review._


End file.
